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T
he fluorescent light in the bathroom shines on my crime. I slide the mirror to the left, reach past an almost-full bottle of Provigil, and grab a small plastic bottle. My dad hides the Ambien way in the back of the cabinet, for when his mind is full of broken babies and he can’t sleep. I mean, I get it. If it were only me standing between a six-day-old and death, the stress would get to me, too.

I shake two of the little white pills into my hand, pretty little saviors, and stick them in my pocket before filling a paper cup with water and heading toward my sister’s room.

The only parts of her I can see are her fuchsia toenails. She’s a lump in the bed, a mountain of blankets.

“Mattie?”

I can tell she’s awake from the way the comforter wiggles. A muffled “Mmmmmph?” emerges from beneath the blanket.

“I brought you something.”

She pushes down the covers and stares at me blankly. I’ve never seen her this way. All our lives, she was the one who cared if her hair was brushed, if her shoes and purse matched. Now, her hair is matted in clumps. She still hasn’t washed the dried mascara from her cheeks.

I sit down on the bed next to her and hold out my hand with the pills. She takes them without a word, places them in her mouth, and washes them down with the water I offer. She looks at me, and her eyes are dead.

“She won’t be at school on Monday.” It’s as if this fact has just occurred to her.

“No.”

“We were supposed to present our Spanish projects.”

Mattie’s face crumples, and the tears start to come. She leans toward me and buries her face in the space between my head and shoulder, making my T-shirt wet. I pat Mattie’s back, feeling awkward. There’s nothing to say, but I’m hoping just being here is enough.

Minutes go by, maybe even an hour.

Finally, she speaks. “It’s my fault.”

“No. It’s not.” I can’t explain how I know this, but I can’t let her carry around this guilt that does not belong to her. Though she’s done a lot of stupid things in her life, she is not responsible for this, this thing that is bigger than both of us.

“We did something to her,” she whispers, so softly I can barely hear her.

“What?” I lean closer.

“Amber and me. We did something really mean.”

I remember Sophie’s mother saying a true friend would never do what they did.

“What is it, Mattie?” I ask gently.

Mattie swallows a sob. “Last year Amber and I slept over at Sophie’s house. We were making ice-cream sundaes, and we had a food fight. Just being dumb. Amber squirted chocolate syrup all over Sophie’s hair.”

“Yeah?” I prod. That doesn’t sound so bad.

“While Sophie was taking a shower, Amber snuck into the bathroom and took a picture with her phone. I told her to erase it. I thought she did. Until yesterday. Amber came up with this plan to get back at Sophie for screwing around with Scotch. And I . . . I went along with it.”

There’s this ball of dread growing in my stomach. I don’t want her to go on, but I have to hear the rest. I have to know the truth.

“What did you do?”

She takes a second to answer.

“Amber sent it to the football team.”

I cover my eyes. That’s what Scotch and his buddy must have been looking at on the bleachers—a picture of Sophie’s naked body. Shit. I can’t think of a more terrible thing to do to a girl with body issues.

“I tried to stop her. I really did. But you know Amber.”

Oh, Sophie. Poor Sophie.

So that was their big plan, the one Amber was plotting in the locker room, the one intended to take Sophie down a notch. Now the scene in Sophie’s bedroom—her sobbing, her mother desperately trying to comfort her— makes heartbreaking sense. But, even so, I know Sophie didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.

“Do you think . . . Do you think that’s why . . .” Mattie’s voice breaks.

I pull Mattie closer. “That had nothing to do with her death.”

“But,” Mattie says, her voice no more than a ghost of a sound, “I heard there was a note. She said, ‘I don’t deserve this.’ What else could she have been talking about?”

The memory of the letter comes rushing back. Why
did
the killer leave that note? Just to make the suicide scenario more believable? What made him—or her—choose that exact phrasing?

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to think of a plausible explanation to give Mattie, one that doesn’t involve a psycho slaughtering her best friend. “Maybe she was just talking about her
life
.”

I wish I could tell her that Sophie’s death wasn’t the result of a stupid prank. But, to do that, I would have to explain how I knew, and even in Mattie’s state, I don’t think she’d believe me.

Mattie eases back onto her pillow and yanks her pink bedspread over her head. Light from the streetlamp sneaks through the slats in her venetian blinds. I rise and pull them closed. On my way out of her room, I see the little sheep night-light she’s had since she was a baby. I flip it on and leave the door open.

I wash four caffeine pills down with a swallow of Mountain Dew even though my hands are shaking and spots bounce across my field of vision. It’s the only way to stay alert, to avoid the vulnerability that comes with sleepiness.

My psychology textbook is open on my bed, but I’m not able to focus on the various theories of motivation. Sophie’s glassy stare keeps coming back to haunt me. Every few minutes, I relive the terror of the night before.

The terror of seeing Sophie Jacobs dead.

I hear something snap outside, and my blood runs cold. Could it be the killer? Did they realize I’d witnessed their dirty deed and come to get rid of me? I roll off my bed and crawl over to the window. I muster every ounce of courage I possess and peek out into the dark yard. There’s nothing but the usual shadows twitching in the night.

Exhaling, I lower my blinds and return to my bed.

I tap my highlighter against the textbook and realize I’ve got to be more proactive. If I’m not going to tell the police what I saw, I have to figure out who killed Sophie Jacobs—and why. I rack my brain, reviewing every murder mystery I’ve ever seen on TV.

What does the hero usually do?

It seems the only place to start is to list the prime suspects. I grab my notebook and turn to a new page. Somehow, writing my thoughts down makes me feel more productive. Now. Where to start?

Well, there’s Amber. Supposedly one of Sophie’s best friends, she’s definitely proven in the last couple of days that she has no loyalty whatsoever. And it was so weird, how she fled the house this afternoon without saying a word. I jot her name down. I’m pretty sure she was jealous of Sophie—if not for her closeness with my sister, then definitely for the attention she was getting from Scotch, one of the most popular guys in school.

Ahhh, Scotch. I write down his name and underline it twice. Would-be date rapist and all-around asshole. But what motive would he have for killing Sophie?

The pieces of the puzzle are scrambled in my head, mocking me. Some of the edges are jagged, some are smooth. It seems like they should fit together, but I’m missing one piece—the most important piece.

I remember last night, how I bent down at my telescope, looking through the lens, peering at the perfect stars in the clear night sky. Something had poked me in the thigh, something sharp in my pocket.

The calendar page I’d been holding when I slid.

Holy shit.

The killer was at our house that day.

The killer . . .

Wait. The piece of paper is the biggest clue I have about who killed Sophie. I have to find it.

I toss the notebook aside and hurl myself onto the floor, searching frantically for the calendar page. There’s nothing by the telescope. Maybe I accidentally kicked it under my bed in all the commotion. I lower my cheek to the carpet and peek underneath. There’s nothing. Not even dust bunnies. Vanessa’s so anal, she routinely pushes our beds aside and vacuums underneath.

Vanessa!

Could she have picked up the page, thinking it was garbage?

I look in my trash can. Nothing but a Target bag lining the inside.

I race downstairs. Sometimes Vanessa empties the smaller trash cans into the bigger one in the kitchen. Crossing my fingers, I pull open the cupboard below the kitchen sink and tilt the garbage can to look in. Nothing but a banana peel. I’m just about to go outside and look through the recycling bin when I smell something burning.

No. Please, no.

But I only have to step into the backyard for my hopes of using the paper to find the killer to be dashed away. My father stands alone before a roaring blaze in our fire pit. He turns to look at me as I join him dejectedly.

“Seemed like a good night for a fire,” he says. The light from the fire bounces off his face, casting shadows on the side nearest me.

I
n biology class on Monday, my eyes start to droop during a film about the cardiovascular system. It’s been hours since my last caffeine pill. On the screen, blood cells with wide eyes and smiling little faces do a dance and explain how they do their job. A heart bulges, filling with ruby-red fluid, then contracts, releasing the blood into the arteries.

I close my eyes and remember it all.

Her lips are parted as though she is about to say something, but she will never speak again. Black hair against white skin. The blood seeps into her bedspread, creating a red silhouette.

I wonder what her last thoughts were. I wonder whose was the last face she saw. The face I was behind. I can’t catch my breath. I swallow and swallow and swallow— deep, burning mouthfuls of air, but it’s not enough.

“Sylvia!” Mrs. Williams sounds far away. I feel her hands gripping me like vises, shaking me. A paper bag appears from out of nowhere, and I hold it up to my mouth to contain my panic.

Soon the fire in my chest is cooled, and I take the bag away. I look around and see a million eyes and gaping mouths.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Williams asks, leaning over me.

“Yeah, I just . . . didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Rollins, from across the room, catches my gaze, then quickly looks away. We haven’t spoken since Friday night, since I had the opportunity to open up to him but instead pushed him away. All weekend, I kept thinking he’d call me, especially after he heard about Sophie. But he never did. That’ll teach me to trust someone. Right when I need them the most, they disappear. Just like my mother did. Just like my father.

Suddenly, I feel the need to get away, to be by myself.

“Would you like to get a drink of water?” I know Mrs. Williams is offering me a chance to get myself together so I don’t look like such a crazy bitch. I’ll take it.

“Uh, yeah.”

As I rise from my desk to escape the stares, she puts her hand on my shoulder.

“We’re all upset,” she says quietly.

I nod and tear away from her. I feel everyone’s stares as I flee from the room. Now I am not only the Narcoleptic Freak; I am the Girl Who Hyperventilated in Bio. I know they won’t be talking about me at lunch today, though. Not when there’s a suicide to discuss.

In the hallway, I look up one way and down the other. No one. The bathroom is only across the hall, but the walk drains me. I make sure the room is empty and lock myself in the stall farthest from the door. The same one Sophie was in on Friday morning.

My head throbs. Kneading my temples with my fingers, I stare at the graffiti on the stall door.
RIP Sophie
. I reach out and touch the words, the cool metal. On Friday, Sophie was here in the flesh, and now she is only words carved into red paint.

Rest in peace.
The sentiment is nice, but when it’s shortened like that—RIP—it reminds me of Sophie’s ivory skin, ripped open like tissue paper. I turn around and retch into the toilet.

Minutes later, as I rinse my face off in the sink, the intercom crackles. Miss Lamb, the secretary, tearfully announces that Sophie Jacobs will be greatly missed. She says school tomorrow will be let out early for Sophie’s funeral. If any of us need to talk to someone about our loss, the counselor has cleared her schedule. This makes me laugh bitterly. If I wanted to explain my predicament to the counselor, she’d have to clear her schedule for a year.

At lunchtime, I avoid the bleachers. I don’t want to talk to Rollins, and the memory of Scotch and his buddy peering at the picture of Sophie sickens me. I wander the halls aimlessly.

I pass by Mr. Golden’s room and see him eating a slice of pizza at his desk. His room seems homey and warm compared to the rest of the school. I find myself lingering in his doorway, wanting to just curl up on one of his couches and go to sleep.

“Sylvia? Are you all right?”

I’m shaken by his voice. He’s holding his slice of pizza inches away from his mouth, like he was just about to take a bite when he was interrupted by some emo girl in the hallway.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll just . . .” I gesture at a random point down the hall and start to leave.

“No, wait.” He puts the pizza down, stands, and takes several steps in my direction. “Come in. Please.”

I try not to sigh audibly as I take shelter in his room and fall onto one of his couches. I hadn’t realized how tired I am. So. Tired. My fingers move to my pocket, to the Provigil bottle full of my sacred caffeine, but then I realize Mr. Golden might report me if he sees me munching on a bunch of pills. I decide to wait, just a little longer.

Mr. Golden closes the door and sinks into a nearby recliner. We sit in silence for a few moments. This is what I need right now. Time to think. Space to exist. The tension melts from my shoulders as I become one with the smelly old couch, just another odd relic in Mr. Golden’s collection of weird things.

“Do you ever feel like life is just too messed up for words?” I finally ask Mr. Golden. The strangeness of the past few days makes them seem unreal, like it was all just a movie. One I can’t escape.

“All the time,” he says, nodding.

I stare at my chipped black nail polish. “I just don’t get how one person can completely destroy another person.”

I’m thinking of the way the knife curved in the killer’s hands, covered in Sophie’s blood, how it seemed like Sophie wasn’t even a person anymore—she was just another inanimate object in the room, robbed of her humanness.

“Are we talking about Sophie?” Mr. Golden’s question is soft and cautious. He asks it in a way that is the opposite of how the school counselor might ask it. His voice isn’t clinical. There are no ulterior motives. He just sounds curious.

“Yeah.” I release a deep breath. I can feel the pressure of it all growing within me, a dam about to burst. Maybe there is a way I can talk around what happened, sort of. Not go into details or anything, but just take the edge off a little bit. “She was friends with my sister.”

He leans forward. “That must be hard. How is Mattie doing?”

I pick at my nails. “Not so good. She feels like . . . like she might have had something to do with Sophie’s death. She did something not very nice to Sophie the day she died.”

“That’s rough.” Mr. Golden rubs at his beard thoughtfully. “But no one made Sophie kill herself. It’s important to realize that. Her choice was her own. It’s a terrible thing, but no one put that knife in Sophie’s hand.”

I drop my hands into my lap abruptly.

How did he know about the knife? Did the teachers hear all the gory details during a faculty meeting?

He winces a little and pulls back. “I realize that must sound harsh to you, Vee. But suicide really is an act of selfishness. Think of her parents. Think of her friends, who are left to wonder what they could have done to stop it. Whatever your sister did, it wasn’t enough to drive Sophie to take her own life.”

“But Sophie didn’t—” Somehow, I stop myself from insisting that Sophie didn’t kill herself. How could I explain without telling my secret?

“Sophie didn’t what, Vee?” Mr. Golden tenses, his fingers curling against his khakis.

I drum my fingers against my leg in frustration. How can I make him understand?

“I just feel like Sophie would never do something like that.” I remember Sophie’s mother’s words. “She was strong—more than she knew.”

Mr. Golden’s face softens. “That’s very nice of you to say, Vee. But you can’t know how she was feeling inside. Depression is an insidious monster. It eats you up from the inside. No, I think Sophie was in an immense amount of pain.”

I dig my fingers into my temples and rub little circles. Nothing I say, short of confessing I witnessed the murder, will change Mr. Golden’s mind. In just a few seconds, Mr. Golden has morphed into an authority figure, spouting off crap about things he can’t possibly know. I really thought he was different.

I stand indignantly.

“There’s more to Sophie’s death. And I’m going to find out what it is.”

I turn to leave before he can say anything in response, but the look on his face is so satisfying—his eyebrows raised and jaw dropped. I hope someday the truth does come out, and he remembers all this psychobabble bullshit he tried to feed me.

When I open the door, I come face-to-face with Samantha Phillips, who’s gazing into a mirror on her locker door and patting powder onto her prissy little nose. She looks from me to the dimly lit room from which I’ve just emerged. Her eyes light up with glee, probably thinking about the rumors she can spread. By the end of the day, everyone will be whispering about my scandalous affair with Mr. Golden.

“Doing a little extra credit?” she asks, smirking.

I scowl at her and walk away. The sound of her voice reminds me of locker rooms and purple dresses and hands where they shouldn’t be.

“Better be careful,” she calls after me. “Sophie Jacobs got cozy with Mr. G., and look where she is now.”

I stop abruptly and turn to confront her. “What are you talking about?”

She closes her locker door. “I saw her with him. In his car. All I’m saying is, you better be careful. He likes ’em young.” She spins on her heel and heads in the other direction, snickering all the way.

And then it hits me.
I
saw them together, too. It was Sophie shaking and crying on the couch in Mr. Golden’s room. Hours before she was murdered.